Like A Star
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: A gold star always makes everything better. Oneshot.


**What's with me and weird pairings for _Glee_? Originally a Quartie, this Rartie/Artchel came to be. Nothing's wrong with odd pairs but I really gotta write a Finchel soon.**

Artie Abrams bounced to his mother's minivan parked in the rubble driveway. It was to be his first ever camping trip at the lake and the little eight-year-old was raring to go. His father taught him fishing a week ago; Artie was planning on bringing home the juiciest salmon this side of Ohio.

"Can I get in front, Mommy?" asked Artie ever so politely, staring up at Mrs. Abrams with wide Bambi eyes. The Abrams were hard on safety and security because they always worried their son might get hurt if they bent the rules at all. But Artie's blue eyes were pleading and the lake was only an hour away.

"Well…" Mrs. Abrams said, scratching at her head of curly red hair, "Okay, but just this once." Artie gave a clap with his little hands while cheering. His mother smiled and helped her baby boy into the front car seat. Artie marveled at the difference of shotgun to the backseat: the radio—which his mom had set to be on oldies stations—was close enough to touch, so now he could put his own tunes on. The windshield was before him now too, and he could see much more clearly than peeking over his dad's head to see smidges of trees and cars. He gasped involuntarily at the space he could kick his little legs in compared to kicking the front seat.

Mrs. Abrams climbed in beside him, gave him a motherly smile, and drove out onto the road. She went to click on the radio but Artie's fingers had made it there first; Bryan Adams reverberated through the car, and Artie swayed to the sound with joy. His mother, not one to be a spoilsport, allowed Artie to listen to his favorite artists instead of hers. With Bryan crooning beautifully and Artie dancing in his seat, everything seemed perfect.

Until that drunk driver came barreling down the street.

Next thing the Abrams knew, an ambulance was wheeling poor eight-year-old Artie inside, his body wrapped with a white sheet and blood on his bespectacled face. Mrs. Abrams cried as she patted her son's hand on the way to the hospital.

* * *

After looking the boy over myriad times, the doctor came out to deliver the news to his parents. Mr. and Mrs. Abrams looked up at the pale-faced doctor with horror. She sighed, and Artie's mother began to cry, knowing the news would be dreadful.

"I have both good news and bad news." said Dr. Foreman, "Arthur is fine. He'll live a good, long life after this." Mrs. Abrams yelped with happiness; they had begun to believe their little boy would die with the white skin of the doctor (which was due to the stress of her patient).

"And…the bad news?" whispered Mr. Abrams. They both gazed up at the doctor with worried faces. Dr. Foreman's green eyes sparkled with tears.

"The bad news…" she said, "Arthur is fine and will live but the impact of the car crash affected his legs. The nerve damage was drastic and…I'm sorry to say he probably won't walk again." The shock of the doctor's words stopped his parents' crying; their eyes were vacant with the surprise of the doctor's words. Foreman led them into Artie's room, where he was hooked to a respirator. Upon seeing his mommy and daddy, Artie attempted to sit up but the weight of his legs were too hard to pull so he decided to just lie back down.

"Mommy, Daddy?" he asked weakly. They both crowded around him, their faces still frozen. "Am I gonna be okay?" With the frail question from her son, realization struck Mrs. Abrams and she sobbed into her husband's shirt, whom stared at his eight-year-old with pity.

* * *

Weeks later Artie sat inside his new wheelie-chair as he dubbed it while his parents filled out forms for the hospital. Neither one was very stable but they put brave fronts on for Artie; no use scaring him when he seemed the least bit happy.

As Artie moved around envisioning himself as a racecar driver, a little girl spotted him from across the waiting room. Her daddies were chatting with the doctor in an amicable manner and she was growing bored with no one to talk to. After seeing a boy who appeared her age, she instantly turned into her charismatic self and skipped over.

"Hi!" she said as merrily as possible with her hoarse voice, "I'm Rachel Barbara Berry, aspiring Broadway singer and movie star! You?" Artie felt like his brain had short-circuited with the rapidity of her voice, and he resorted to a babbling idiot. Rachel's extended hand made him even more nervous because he didn't know how to react.

"Um, I-I-I'm Ar-Artie." he choked out. Rachel kept her sparkly-white smile even though Artie was a bit distasteful in his first impressions. She took his hand and shook it, so hard she almost pulled poor Art out of his seat. After releasing him she launched into a longwinded speech about her reason for being there.

"Charmed. My daddy and daddy and I were sitting around in my living singing along to _Funny Girl_ when my throat started hurting. Then I could barely talk or sing anymore. My daddies said I prob'ly just lost my voice because of Larry Gitis so I told them to sue Larry for stealing my voice! They said I'd get my voice back soon but I made them take me to the hospital. The doctor said I'd be fine if I just refrained from talking but how can I do _that_?" If Artie's brain hadn't already exploded from her fast-paced voice, it had now. "Why are _you _here?" Artie found she was asking him so he collected himself before answering.

"I got in a car crash." he explained, "I'm fine but I won't walk again." Rachel's tan face paled at his words. He never realized how horrid his situation sounded to someone unknowing. Worried he had made a terrible mistake, Artie apologized. Rachel shook her head, regaining her smile (though now it was forced more).

"Don't apologize." she said, "Here, this'll help." She took a glittery sheet of paper from her pocket. On it were dozens of glossy gold stars. She plucked one off the paper and bent down near one of his wheelie-chair's wheels. With gentle care only an eight-year-old possessed, Rachel pasted the gold star sticker on his wheel. Then she stood up, and her smile no longer appeared forced.

"There," she said, "now you're a star like me." Artie grinned, stroking the star with affection.

"Thank you." he said. The Berry girl blushed and waved her hand like it was no biggie.

"Rachel, hon!" yelled one of the men by the doctor, causing Rachel to turn, "Time to go!" Rachel waved goodbye to Artie, and he waved back before she ran back to her fathers. He peered over the edge of his wheel at the star stuck to his wheel; thanks to this star, he'd never forget Rachel Berry.

* * *

Even nine years later as he sits in Glee watching Rachel and Finn singing passionately to the other, he just reminds himself that _he's_ the one with a certified Rachel Barbara Berry Gold Star on his wheelchair. That's something Finn will never have.


End file.
